Frozen Heart
by ekbirch
Summary: Months have passed since Brad Borden fled Heartland, taking with him Heartland's money and leaving behind his heartbroken son. The consequences of his visit, however, may do more than break Ty Borden's heart—they could stop it permanently. (In which there is a Truck, a Kid, and a frozen pond.) Set between season two and three of CBC's Heartland.
1. Gray

Ty Borden returns from his first call with a bleached face and haunted eyes. Grandpa emerges from the house and makes a beeline for Scott, who sits in the driver's seat of his vehicle. Dropping her pitchfork, Amy moves automatically, rushing into Ty's welcoming arms and holding him close. He left only this morning, but seeing him after a whole day reminds her just how much she misses him when he's gone.

 **How Much Amy Fleming Missed Ty Borden** :

A lot more than she's willing to admit.

She breathes him in, expecting the familiar scent of soap and hay and horses. Instead, she smells something chemical and metallic and . . . horse. There were horses involved. This ominous combination makes her gut twist with apprehension.

Pulling away from his embrace, Amy studies him carefully. She notes the nervous energy thrumming through him, like that of a skittish, under-exercised horse, overlaid by a shroud of exhaustion that goes beyond the physical. "I missed you," she ventures sweetly, smiling despite her concern.

"Me too," he says. But he's absent-minded, distant, like a wild horse forced into a corral.

"Your first day as veterinary assistant," Amy says, proudly smoothing his coat. "How'd it go?"

 **How It Went** :

"Fine. It went Fine. It was great."

"You okay?" she asks, peering up at him worriedly. A part of her scolds herself for being such a worrywart. Mallory would roll her eyes and scoff at her mother-henning.

 **A Fact About Ty Borden** :

When he's not comfortable with talking about something,

He lies about it instead.

And that's exactly what he does now. As if Amy can't tell. As if she doesn't know that the little grin he offers is fake and the light in his eyes is mustered up out of sheer force of will. " Of course. 'M fine." Plastic words from a plastic expression. A mask.

"Are you sure?" she tries again. Gives him another chance.

"Yeah, I'm sure." That artificial smile widens. "Just tired, that's all." He turns away from her and pulls his small bag off of the passenger floorboard.

Fine. If Ty's going to be a clam, he can be a clam. Amy will figure it out eventually. "Hey, Scott," she says, peeking into his truck.

He waves. "Hey, Amy," he responds. She can tell he's a little downcast, too. Eager for answers, she walks around the front of the pickup and plants herself in front of the door, ignoring Grandpa's questioning look.

"What happened?" she inquires, glancing up at Ty as she does so. Predictably, he avoids her eye.

"Some wild horses wandered down from the mountains," Scott replies grimly. "Had a run-in with some wolves."

Amy's heart skips a beat. "Oh, no." Scott's mouth is pressed in a thin line.

"Most of the horses were fine, but a couple were injured. A rancher corralled those. They'll be fine, but there was a foal . . . "

The scene unfolds in Amy's mind in all it's bloody carnage. Wolves, ravenous after a long, hard winter, attacking a herd of wild horses also worn out by the cold season. Wolves are inherent predators, born with the ability to pick out prey that will cost them the least time and energy. They'd go after the small or the weak; in this case, that'd be the foals. Amy's stomach rolls. Swallowing hard, she opens her mouth, searching for words that don't want to form. "Scott . . . " She can feel Grandpa's presence behind her, and it comforts her, calms her. "Is there anything we can do?"

"That's life, Amy," Scott says resignedly. "I'm kinda used to it." He flashes a tired, half-hearted smile. His smile fades as he looks past Amy. She follows his gaze to see Ty disappearing through the entrance of the barn.

Grandpa frowns. "Is Ty okay?" He leans against the pickup in his best Concerned Father pose.

Scott shrugs helplessly. "He says he is. Just give him time. He'll talk if he wants to." As Scott pulls out of the drive, Amy offers a goodbye that she barely hears. The image of Ty's green face is burned indelibly in her mind, making a bitter taste rise in her mouth.

* * *

That night, when Mallory arrives back from Jake's house, she takes one look at Amy and immediately goes on the offensive. "What's wrong, Amy? Where's Ty? How did his first call with Scott go?"

Amy huffs. "Nothing's wrong with me, Mallory." She flips the page of a textbook she's been staring at for the past twenty minutes without comprehending a single word. "And I don't know where Ty is." A note of displeasure leaks into her voice at this point. Ty's been avoiding her—heck, he's been avoiding everyone—all evening, and it makes Amy prickle with consternation.

Mallory gasps dramatically. "Is he okay?" Then, more suspiciously: "Did you and Ty get in a fight?"

"What? No!" Amy twists around in her chair to pin Mallory with her best annoyed-older-sibling scowl. "Mallory, don't you have better things to do?"

"Yeah, like find Ty. If he's eaten the last of my special bagels I'm going on a killing spree." Her immunity to Amy's glower is a phenomenon not understood by virtually anyone at Heartland. Amy grits her teeth as Mallory walks past her to grab something from the fridge. That's when a devious idea pops into Amy's head.

 **A Devious Idea** :

Two can play the Irritating Interrogation Game.

Amy makes her move. "Did you have fun at Jake's?"

A hesitant pause. "Yeah."

Victory. Amy presses her advantage. "So . . . what'd you do?"

Mallory shrugs—which is quite a feat when one's entire upper torso is crammed into the refrigerator. "The usual."

 **The Usual** :

A little bit of video game-playing,

A lot of good-natured bantering that Mallory pretends to hate but actually relishes.

Jake, he just wants to be with Mallory.

Then she gives a groan of frustration. "Ty! You know I was saving those!"

Amy looks down at her textbook, a small grin on her face.

That's when Lou bursts into the room, her usually pristine appearance frazzled and panicked.

Amy stands, the chair scraping across the floor. "What's wrong?"

"One of my clients fell into the lake," Lou says breathlessly. "I've gotta make sure he's okay."

"I'll come with you," Amy and Mallory chorus simultaneously. Lou doesn't have time to argue. She relents with barely a word of protest as they grab their coats from two of the many hooks lining the wall and follow Lou out to the truck. By the time they pull up to the cabins, the client—who happens to be the snobbish little boy Amy was coerced into leading around the corral on a horse the day before—is buried in blankets and stuffed into a chair next to the fireplace. He is shaking like a leaf on a stiff breeze, but that's nothing compared to his mother.

"You!" she hisses, her hair frizzy and eyes wild in the firelight. She points a quivering finger at Lou, who has the grace to look concerned. "How could you put a child in danger like that? He could have died!"

"Ma'am, I'm so sorry," Lou says apologetically. "Do you need me to call a doctor?"

"I've already done it, no thanks to you," the mother—what's her name: Sanderson? Sanders?—spits. Her expression softens marginally as she glances over at her son, who peers out at them from beneath a veritable mountain of blankets that, after a quick inspection of the cabin, appear to have been pulled from the beds and cabinets.

"Is there anything else I can do?" Lou questions, her hospitable, diplomatic mask pulled into place. "I can get more blankets from the house." There is a pregnant pause in which the boy's chattering can be heard by everyone in the room. Amy tries not to look at the kid because she knows she'll pity him, but it's hard not to. Curled into a ball, he's shivering so hard the entire mass of blankets is shuddering.

"Not now, there isn't," the woman grumbles. "It's a good thing that I was watching or it could've been a lot worse. You're lucky I'm not pressing charges."

Lou's eyes widen. "Yes, Mrs. Saunders. Thank you." She dips her head in acquiescence—a very not-Lou thing to do. "I'm willing to give you a discount for your trouble—"

"Don't bother," Mrs. Saunders says crisply. "We're scheduled to leave in the morning anyway." Mallory's eyes narrow with distaste. She opens her mouth, undoubtedly about to give Mrs. Saunders a piece of her mind, but Amy shoots her a cautionary glance.

"We're going to go back to the house now, Mrs. Saunders," Lou says formally, her expression tight with repressed emotion. "Are you sure you don't need anything?"

"Quite," comes the succinct reply.

"Don't be afraid to call if you need anything else," Lou says. Mrs. Saunders merely grunts in acknowledgement, her attention already recaptured by her child. Crouching by his side, she murmurs to him and gently strokes his hair.

Amy grabs Mallory and propels her from the cabin before she could make the situation worse.

The instant the truck door slams shut, Mallory huffs, "She was so rude!"

"Her son did fall in a lake," Amy reminds her. But she doesn't disagree.

"We need to put up a signs or something," Lou says, her grip on the steering wheel tightening. "Gosh, I hope this doesn't get around. I can't afford to lose clients."

"People should know that it's dangerous to play around the lake during this time of year," Amy says. "They tell us that stuff in schools all the time: Don't go onto ice unless you're with someone, there's no snow on it, and it's been cold for a steady period of time. None of those criteria were met when that boy walked out onto the lake." Dumb city-slickers.

"She said he fell in . . . " Lou says dubiously.

"Baloney!" Mallory chimes in. "He was playing on the lake and we know it."

Amy nods in agreement. "I bet that lady just said he fell in to make it look like our fault," she added. "Besides, Ty . . . tested it just yesterday. I doubt that it's changed much since then."

 **Translation of "Tested"** :

Ty had the brilliantly foolish idea that consisted mainly of scaring Mallory out of her wits.

It backfired.

Mallory pushed Ty onto the edge of the lake.

The ice didn't break,

But he was definitely more careful after that.

"Tell that to the people who might think Heartland is an unsafe environment for their kids," Lou says churlishly. "I'm having Ty put warning signs up all around the lake the first thing in the morning." A thoughtful pause. "And I'm going back to the Saunders' cabin to wait for the doctor."

* * *

The next morning, Amy wakes to a dreary gray dawn illuminating a dirty-slush earth. After breakfast, she asks Grandpa if he thinks it's safe to take the horses out for exercise.

 **Grandpa's Answer** :

"Yes, but don't get carried away. I have a feeling winter's not over just yet."

Perfect. By the time Amy walks into the barn, Ty's already pouring feed into the horses' respective troughs. The sight of his tousled hair and shadowed eyes reminds Amy of his perturbed quiet upon his return from his first call. "Grandpa said we can go riding," she suggests. He turns to face her fully, and Amy can't help but gape at how . . . frankly, how bad he looks. "Ty, you look awful. Did you get any sleep?"

 **The Truth** :

Not a wink.

 **What he says** :

"Yeah, Course I did."

He turns away. Amy frowns. "Okay. So . . . do you want to go riding with me later?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure." He dumps a bucket of feed into the last stall and walks past her without even glancing her way.

Amy's starting to think that Ty's speaking ability has suddenly been pared down to a maximum of four words. She wants to ask him about it, but Scott's advice stays her tongue. He'll talk when he's ready, she assures herself. Last night, a thousand gruesome visions involving mutilated foals and wolves with bloodstained muzzles dominated her thoughts before she finally fell asleep. She wonders if these same nightmares haunted Ty's sleep as well.

"Ty!" Lou bustles into the barn, her appearance as immaculate as usual. "I need you to run into town to find some signs for me."

Amy takes off before Lou can rope her into it as well. When she walks back into the house, Jack greets her from his place at the table.

"Somethin's botherin' you. You wanna tell me what it is?"

Amy huffs. "Why don't you ask Ty? There's definitely something bothering him. Maybe he'll actually tell you something." She slaps her hands down on the kitchen counter with more force than necessary.

"Ty'll talk if he wants to," Grandpa says absently, flipping a page of his newspaper. "Maybe he just isn't ready yet."

"Maybe he'll never be ready," Amy declares, throwing up her hands in exasperation.

"Scott said it was quite the first call." Grandpa never looks up from his newspaper, but Amy knows he's listening as surely as she knows that Spartan loves jumping.

"Hungry pack of wolves got to some wild horses," Amy informs him grimly. "Sounds pretty nasty."

"Like I said: If he wants to talk about it, he will. Oh, and I wouldn't get too excited about spring quite yet. I heard that there's another snowstorm headin' our way."

"Great," Amy sighs. "That's just what we need—more snow."

"And that's exactly why we need to do something." Mallory rushes into the kitchen with the determination of a woman on a mission.

"Do what, exactly?" Grandpa asks cautiously, peering at her from over his newspaper.

"Read up on ice safety," Mallory replies emphatically. She slaps down a stack of papers that must be three inches thick. "Mrs. Saunders son got me thinking: How much do we really know about safety on the ice? It could happen to any of us."

"Mallory!" Amy exclaims, staring at the papers incredulously. "How much printer ink did you use?"

"How can you be thinking about printer ink when lives could be at stake?" Mallory asks indignantly. "Reading this could save your life. Or someone else's." She's so serious that Amy would laugh if not for the fact that Lou will probably read her the riot act for allowing Mallory to use the printer without permission. Lou's riot acts tend to be exhausting and tedious—not to mention boring.

"Your concern is touching, Mallory," Grandpa says. "But I think next time you'd better ask before using Lou's printer."

Mallory just squints at him disbelievingly. "Unbelievable," she mutters, and stalks away with her head held high.

* * *

"So, are you going to tell me what's up with you?" Amy questions, pulling on Spartan's reins.

Jaw clenched and gaze downcast, Ty brings his horse to a stop. "Nothing's up with me, Amy." His horse stomps the slushy ground, sensing Ty's unease.

"And how does 'nothing' explain why you're avoiding me?" Amy counters. "And the fact that you looked green when you got home yesterday."

 **Another Fact About Ty Borden** :

He is not very good at explaining anything that has to do with his emotions.

Ty scoffs and glances around, purposefully avoiding Amy's gaze. "Amy, it's nothing, okay? It was just—I can't . . . "

 **A Fact About Amy Fleming** :

She can be patient.

Noting his obvious unease, Amy decides to back off a little. Over the course of her relationship with Ty Borden, she's learned that pushing usually just clams him up even more. "Ty, it's okay." She directs her horse closer to his and places a comforting hand on his arm. Silence. Ty looks up at the sky, which is a brighter shade of the somber gray Amy woke up to. Amy counts—one, two, three, four, five—before he musters up the courage to speak.

"I threw up." Ty hangs his head, as if he's just told her that he murdered a kitten. "There was a foal at the ranch, a young colt that the rancher rescued. It was . . . " He fades into silence, letting Amy's imagination construct an image in the place of words.

 **The Result** :

Not a pretty picture.

"Scott tried to save him," he says flatly, his gaze hard and distant. "It was too late. Had to put it down."

Ty's one of the few people Amy can read in a way that's akin to the way she understands a horse. She can see past his nonchalant, sometimes insolent exterior to the playful, caring soul underneath. "Oh, Ty." Her heart nearly bursts with affection for Ty Borden, her sometimes-awkward, hotheaded, compassionate, kind-hearted boyfriend. "That's nothing to be ashamed of." Moving her hand from his arm, she places her gloved hand on top of his in what she hopes is a consoling gesture.

"I'm training for veterinary school, Amy." He looks at her with those captivating eyes of his, and for a moment, she's struck speechless. "How can I ever even hope to be a vet if I can't deal with stuff like this . . . and worse?"

"Ty, that was your first time," Amy reminds him gently. "This is gonna sound kinda . . . unsympathetic, but you'll get used to it. Scott said you did really well for your first time."

He stares at her with raised eyebrows. "Really?"

"Yes, really," Amy promises. Then she offers a warm, uplifting smile. "He didn't tell you about his first time helping with a veterinary surgery?"

Ty looks down, a small smile flitting across his face. "Actually, yeah, he did. Said he passed out."

Amy's smile becomes positively sun-shiny. "See? You didn't do so bad." She leans over and gives him reassuring hug. Ty folds her in his warm embrace, and for a single, rapturous moment, everything seems right with the world. Then he sees it.

 **"It"** :

The Truck.

"You know that Truck?" Ty questions, pointing in the direction of a spot beyond Amy's current line of vision.

Pulling reluctantly away from Ty, Amy squints: it's too far away for her to see much, but she can tell that it's a nice flatbed, a newer model, by the looks of it, and painted a deep red colour. It's resting on the crest of a faraway hill like a giant crimson bird nested in the snow. Just sitting. Watching.

"I don't think so," Amy replies uncertainly. "Who do you think it is?"

"Dunno," Ty responds, his eyes narrowed. "Wanna go check it out?"

It is a testament to his growing maturity that he looks to her for approval. Amy looks down at Spartan. He's spotted the flatbed, and, like Amy, doesn't seem to know what to think of it. "I don't think we should," she decides.

"Why not?" Ty, Ty, Ty. So reckless. So bold.

"The horses don't seem to care either way. We'll wait til Grandpa gets back and we can ask him to take us out to see if it's still here." She doesn't tell him of the unidentifiable force tugging at her, warning her against getting any closer to the strange vehicle. Amy guides her horse back down the hill, and to his credit Ty follows without a word of complaint.

But by the time they return later in Grandpa's pickup, the Truck is gone.

* * *

 **A Bit of Dialogue Featuring** :

The Owner of the Truck, And a faceless man with a voice like Ice, Who will stop at nothing to get What he wants.

"You're sure you saw him?" Ice rasps.

"I'm sure," the Owner affirmed.

"I couldn't get close enough to take a picture. But it's Borden, all right. I seen 'im with my binoculars."

"Then you know what to do," Ice says. His voice is a frigid winter wind. Bitterly cold and unpredictable.

"Yeah," the Owner replies. "I know what t'do. I'll call ya when I find somethin'." The line goes dead. The Owner sits in his Truck in silence. Tucking his cell into his pocket, the Owner represses a shudder. The cold created by the Ice's voice lingers.

"Mallory!"

Ty's shouting. And when Ty's shouting that means one of two things.

 **The Two Things** :

1) Something has gone tragically, horribly wrong

2) Mallory has done something drastic.

Mallory peeks into the kitchen, her expression the quintessence of youthful innocence. "You called?"

"You ate the last of the crunchy peanut butter?" Ty folds his arms, wearing an annoyed-older-sibling face that is uncannily similar to the one Amy gave her yesterday.

Mallory shrugs. "There's a little bit left in the bottom," she offers lamely, surreptitiously searching the kitchen for an escape route.

Ty rolls his eyes and snatches the nearly-empty container from the cupboard. "Thanks, Mallory. Thanks a lot."

"You're one to talk," Mallory shoots back, putting her hands on her hips. "I know you took my last bagel! Lou's not going into town for another week!"

"Mallory, it would be hard for me to take your precious bagels when I was gone all of the day before yesterday." Grabbing a knife from the drawer, Ty begins his futile attempt to scrounge the last of the peanut butter from the bottom of the container.

"A good excuse, Ty, but not good enough." Mallory folds her arms skeptically, her eyes narrowed.

"A better excuse than yours," he snorts. "You ate my peanut butter out of pure spite." Ty glances up from his hopeless endeavour, emerging with only a pitifully small glob of paste for all of his struggles. "Besides, if you wanted more bagels, you could've asked me to get some. I had to run into town yesterday."

"To get those signs," Mallory recalls, her attention already focusing elsewhere. "That reminds me: Have you read my packet on ice safety yet?"

"I might have already, if someone hadn't come in here ranting about bagels," Ty mutters, staring at the pathetic amount of paste drooping from the knife. Mallory just stares at him expectantly. "No, Mallory," he answers resignedly. "I haven't read your packet about ice safety. Which just so happens to be pretty useless. All of the ice is melting." He gestures toward the window, which successfully causes the remaining bit of peanut butter to fly off of the knife and onto the floor.

"Tough luck," Mallory says sympathetically. It's strange how completely unsympathetic she sounds. Before Ty can say another word, she strides out of the kitchen, a smug little grin on her face.

* * *

That night, Lou is in a marginally good mood—which is to say she's in a better mood than she was previously. "All three of my cabins have been booked for the weekend," she announces as she finishes doling out Ty's sizable serving of spaghetti.

"Well that's good," Amy says, her mouth already full of food. She hopes desperately that none of Lou's clients want to be taken horseback riding. Or skiing. Or anything that has to do with her parading them around Heartland property.

"They were some weird guys, though." Lou muses. Sitting down at her place at the table, she fiddles with her fork, absorbed in thought. "Didn't want trail rides or skiing or breakfast, even." She glances worriedly around the table, gauging reactions. "You don't think it's because of my cooking, do you?"

"I doubt it has anything to do with you, Lou," Grandpa assures. Amy nods in agreement, secretly glad that she won't be busy catering a group of clients all weekend. She knows that her grandfather is most certainly grateful that he won't be sharing the breakfast table with a bunch of random strangers.

The next morning Ty sees it: the Truck. It's sitting outside one of the cabins, its deep red color standing out against the bleak grey of the landscape. Its owner isnowhere to be seen—probably inside the cabin, Ty thinks. Then he berates himself for getting so worked up about a vehicle.

"Whatcha looking at?" Mallory asks, glancing up from her place in Copper's stall.

"Nothing," Ty replies absently, leaning against his pitchfork. "It's just . . . me and Amy saw that Truck yesterday on Heartland property. Wonder what they were doing."Is it possible for a vehicle to look . . . dangerous? he wonders, peering at it closely.

 **The Answer** :

Of course it is.

After Wade,

Ty knows that anything can look,

Can _be_

Dangerous.

"Dunno," Mallory responds. "What I do know is that these horses aren't going to feed themselves."

* * *

"Grandpa, that's the Truck," Amy says. That ominous feeling is back, and she doesn't like it. "It was here yesterday."

"Is that so?" Brushing off his hands, Grandpa squints at the vehicle, his mustache curved down in a frown. "Do I need to have a little chat with the owners of this Truck?" "I-I'm sure it's nothing," Amy says quickly. "They were probably just checking out the ranch, seeing what it's like before they checked in officially." If Grandpa scared away the people at the dude ranch, Lou would most likely kill Amy. Slowly. In the most painful way possible.

Grandpa harrumphs. "They could've checked out the ranch without trespassin' on my property," he grumbles. Amy wholeheartedly agrees.


	2. Snow

" **What do you mean you can't find it**?" Ice's gravelly voice pierces the Owner's ear. Chills of anxiety race down his spine, making him shiver almost involuntarily.

"Me and my guys looked all of last night and all of the night before that," the Owner whines, raking a hand through disheveled, unwashed hair. "I'm gonna need a few more days."

"A few more days," Ice echoes flatly.

"This place is big," the Owner says defensively. "Me and the guys spent all of two nights looking." And he has the blisters to prove it.

"I see." His seemingly unperturbed reaction is scarier than a temper tantrum. "I need that money, Mr. Lorry."

"And you'll get it," the Owner, Mr. Lorry, promises vehemently. "We'll do anything it takes." He peeks out the window of the cabin. A velvet night sky has just stretched itself over Heartland, studded with a myriad of stars that twinkle like diamonds. A good night for searching. But he's not admiring the celestial lights. He's eyeing the person headed toward his cabin.

"You'd better," Ice says. "You're spending a good chunk of money renting the entire place, Mr. Lorry. I'd hate to think of what might happen if you should fail." He lapses into a frosty silence. The calm before the storm.

"I gotta go," the Owner says, his voice hoarse with barely-contained apprehension. "Someone's comin'."

Ice doesn't bother with goodbyes. Shaking off the creeping tendrils of worry, the Owner squares his shoulders, strides across the room, and flings open the door. "What?" he snaps irritably.

It's that woman—Sue or Drew or whatever. One hand clutches a batch of freshly baked cookies and the other is raised to knock on the door. Her eyes widen and her lips part with astonishment. "I'm sorry, Mr. Larson," she says graciously. "I was just coming by to give you these cookies and see if you need anything." She begins to back away, but Mr. Lorry—or, to this woman, Mr. Larson—tosses up a hand to stop her.

"Wait," he calls. "I'll take those cookies." Who is he to turn down perfectly good food? She starts to step into the cabin, but Lorry, in a brief moment of panic, throws out an arm to stop her—again. "I'll take those!" he barks hurriedly.

The woman's eyebrows raise. "O-okay," she stammers. Brow furrowed, she proffers the baking sheet. "Careful, it's—"

Too late.

Pain sears Lorry's hands. Eliciting a very un-henchman-like shriek, he drops the pan on the porch, scattering cookies every which way.

Fleming and Lorry both let loose a stream of vile profanities.

"I am so sorry," Fleming starts apologetically.

"It's okay," he wheezes through clenched teeth, clutching his burned hands to his chest. "I'm just going to—"

"No, allow me," the woman interrupts breathlessly. Before Lorry can stop her she rushes into the cabin. "There's a first aid kit in here somewhere . . . "

Agitation writhes in Lorry like a brood of snakes. Muttering another string of curses, he careens after her. "Wait!" he calls. "I can take care of it. You don't have to do this!"

"I insist!" Fleming calls from the bathroom. Tension squeezes Lorry's gut like a vise, twisting and crushing it to the size of a b-b. Flopping down on the bed, he tries not to think about the shovels and the metal detector hidden under the very bed where he now sits. "Here it is!" Fleming emerges from a bathroom cabinet wielding a first aid kit. "Run your hands under some cold water in the bathroom, Mr. Larson," she urges. From Fleming it sounds less like a suggestion and more like a command.

He is loathe to leave the incriminating apparatus unsupervised, but to resist her logical request would be suspicious and rude. Hands shaking with what he attributes to pain, he shuffles into the bathroom and holds them under the already-running tap. The woman's right—the cool water alleviates the discomfort caused by the burns. But it doesn't mitigate the nervousness gnawing at his gut. The scenario plays before his mind's eye with brutal clarity.

 **The Scenario** :

Fleming, discovering the items under the bed.

Questions being asked.

Lorry narrowly avoiding incarceration.

Returning to Ice with empty hands.

Then . . .

He doesn't permit his thought process to continue any further. Moving almost mechanically, he turns off the water and darts back into the main room, half-expecting Fleming to be tugging the metal detector out from under the bed. But no, she is rummaging through the first aid kit, bandages and ointment already in hand.

"Thanks," he says gruffly as she deftly dresses his hands. But internally he's panicking: How is he supposed to keep searching what had to be hundreds of acres of land with injured hands?

Fleming frowns, staring at his hands curiously. "Mr. Larson, these are some bad blisters," she remarks.

His hands twitch away from hers almost involuntarily. Cursing himself under his breath, Lorry studies his twice-injured hands, mind frantically searching for a plausible cause for the blisters—which are too far along to be caused by the hot baking sheet alone. "I'm a construction worker," is the feeble excuse spilling swiftly from dry lips. Forcing his heart rate back to normal speeds, he proffers his hands, which quiver ever so slightly.

"Oh," the woman murmurs dubiously. Her eyes are trained on his suspiciously injured hands even after she finishes dressing them.

* * *

"Dang, Lorry. What happened to your hands?" A man with a mien resembling that of a rat eyes Lorry's wrapped hands curiously.

"None o' your business, that's what," Lorry growled irritably. Rat—whose real name, albeit unacknowledged by most of the civilised world, is Albert—eyes him balefully, muttering something tremendously uncomplimentary about Lorry to his comrade. His men are cranky and Lorry can't blame them. Spending a Sunday night out in the cold searching for a big wad of cash whose entirety won't even go to them is not a way any of them want to occupy their time. "Where're the Fremonts? It's eleven thirty." He shines his flashlight around, searching for the brothers in the looming darkness.

"They're wonderin' why you ain't doin' the smart thing, Lorry," Rat growls.

Anger, so easily inflamed in him these days, flares up inside him like wildfire. Lorry whips around to face his employee, bandaged fists clenched. "And what might that be?" he snaps, deliberately shining his light into Rat's bloodshot eyes.

Glaring mutinously into the flashlight's beam, Rat adjusts his grip on his metal detector. "Give up searchin' and just ask the Kid!"

"You must be outta your mind," Lorry snarls, stalking up to Rat. "You think he's just gonna tell us where his old man's money is?" Unfortunately, Rat is about the same height as Lorry—if not taller. Even so, Lorry refuses to be cowed and returns Rat's glare with equal ferocity.

"How do we even know he has it?" Rat's compatriot—Maurice—jumps in. "Borden never said anything about a Kid."

"But Borden did say he had money," Lorry counters, turning to pin Maurice with a pointed before he giving Ice the cash he promised him. "And if Ice believes him, then I'm reckonin' that somewhere around here there's a good pile o' dough stashed away."

"And since when do we trust anything Brad has to say?" Rat asks.

"We've searched everywhere," Lorry says, forcing his tone to remain sensible and placating. "Where else could it be but here?"

"Well, if it is here, it sure ain't gonna be buried in the woods," Rat points out. "Borden's Kid would have it."

"I'm willing to bet that Borden snatched it before we could get here," Maurice puts in, tugging his hat more securely over his bald head. "That'd be just like 'im. Promise Ice his money, then snatch it and split before Ice can tell him to hand it over."

"Well, we sure ain't gonna find it standin' around and talkin' about it," Lorry declares. "Maurice, you take the southern quadrant. Rat, you take the north. Remember, you see anything and you page me. I'm goin' to go and find the Fremonts."

"Why do we have to do the grunt work?" Rat whines. "And why do you insist on callin' meRat?"

"You have to do the grunt work 'cause you're the employees and I'm the employer," Lorry spits. "And I call you Rat because you are one. Any more questions?"

A couple of sulky head shakes. Whatever. Lorry is out of there.

* * *

"I give up!" Rat's announcement elicits two primary responses.

 **The Two Primary Responses** :

1) A passionate rumble of approval from Maurice and the sullen Fremont brothers.

2) A passionate rumble of _disapproval_ from Lorry.

"Face it, Lorry." Dropping his metal detector, Rat brushes off his hands and puts them defiantly on his hips. "We're never going to find the money. Your boss will just have to live without it."

You don't understand! Lorry wants to doesn't "live without it." He gets what he wants, when he wants it, or someone will pay the price. And with Ice, the price is always a high one. But he doesn't tell his employees that. Instead he says, with all the cool calmness of his boss: "Fine by me. But you're not getting paid until that money is found."

The four mercenaries exchange knowing glances. In the dark, with only flashlights illuminating the space in which they worked, those glances are downright unnerving. "I tell you what, Lorry," Rat says. "You can barely work. We've been searching for days without getting a whiff of anything. We're tired, it's almost dawn—why don't you let us handle this?"

"Not likely," Lorry snarls. "What do you take me for?" Visions of his body, frozen solid by a combination of cold and rigor mortis and lying in a ditch along the side of the road, flash before his mind's eye.

"If you keep goin' on like this, I take you for a fool!" Rat responds boldly. "We'll get the money; you pay your boss, you pay us, and Bob's your uncle! It's all taken care of."

Leaning against his shovel, Lorry chews his lower lip, his mind racing. If he lets them have their way, who knows what they'll do? None of his workers were the most reputable of men. With Rat as their leader, the possibility of very illegal circumstances arising are undeniably high. If they are caught, Lorry would most likely go to prison—and with his record, it would be for a very long time. But then again . . . how can he refuse them? They are like him—poor, needy, and desperate for one thing and one thing only: money. If they succeed, it's like Rat said: Lorry could get Ice and the hired hands off his case in one fell swoop. In addition, Ice has promised him a good amount of monetary reimbursement for his trouble.

He takes a good, long look at his workers, at their wild eyes and shaking hands and hard expressions—the demeanours of desperate men. If they really want the money, they won't wait for his approval. They'll get it whether Lorry authorises their scheme or not. Taking a deep breath, Lorry says, "All right. But don't expect me to bail you out if you get caught."

* * *

Tonight they are wraiths. They are shadows borne in the darkness of night. And their intentions come from similarly dark minds.

The others have been careful to stay relatively unobtrusive over the course of their stay. No need for the inhabitants of Heartland to be able to identify them once someone figures out that the money is gone. Still, they are garbed in all black. Everything from their shoes to their ski masks are the colour of coal.

One thing they haven't planned on is the inclement weather. Snow had begun falling far before the go-time of their scheme, which Rat dismissed as an innocuous snowfall. Then the wind started howling and snow assaulted Heartland at an alarming rate. It almost got to the point where Rat was about to call it off when the storm quieted. Then picked back up. Then calmed again. It was as capricious and unpredictable as a hurricane-and just as dangerous, if they weren't careful. Lorry took it as a bad omen, but Rat was adamant. Regardless of the weather, they would complete their plan tonight.

They wait until well after midnight to put their scheme into action. Even the horses are asleep, though several of them startle and whinny when four of the men enter the barn that they had surreptitiously reconnoitred earlier that day. The men are silent as the shadows they resemble as they slip up the stairs into Borden's room.

The plan is simple: Grab the Kid, take him somewhere secure, then ask him the money's whereabouts. If he refuses to tell-well, they will cross that bridge when they get to it. The plan is easier said than done. Borden fights them all the way down the stairs, even after Maurice clocks him with one of their shovels. He's strong, but against four men who are experienced in taking people against their will, he is no match. A sock stuffed into his mouth, a bag slipped over his head, Brad Borden's son might wake up the next morning believing that wraiths had whisked him away during the night. That it had all been a nightmare and that he is back safe in his bed.

Lorry is waiting for them in the driver's seat. Drumming his fingers nervously on the steering wheel, he peers out at the thick sheet of snow descending from the cloudy night sky, wishing for all the world he had never even heard of Rat or his cronies. He's hidden from the house's view, but the horses are making a lot of noise; any moment now, someone could discover them and then it would be all over. Rat emerges from the barn first, followed by the Fremonts, who pin the Borden kid between themselves. Then comes Maurice, who shuts the door carefully behind them. As if anyone could possibly hear the door shutting. The wind is picking up speed, nearly drowning out even the horses' ruckus.

"Drive," Rat orders, practically falling into the passenger's seat. A blast of cold air enters the car as the Fremont brothers pile into the back seat, their victim squeezed between them. Lorry doesn't even wait until the back door is completely shut. He peels out of Heartland like a racecar, maintaining a white-knuckle grip on the steering wheel. In the rearview mirror, he can discern Maurice's silver car through a haze of snow that no longer falls, but careens through the air like BBs.

As they race under the Heartland sign, Rat lets out a gleeful whoop. "We did it!" Rat cries. Lorry's stomach churns.

* * *

Back at the ranch, Amy wakes her grandfather with a frantic rap at his bedroom door. "Grandpa!" she calls, her voice strained and high. "They took Ty!"

"What? Who took Ty?" Grandpa demands, pulling on a flannel shirt.

"The Truck! They came racing out from behind the barn." The ominous feeling gnawing at her gut is undeniable now, so strong she thinks she might be sick. "Grandpa, we gotta get him back!"

"Hold on, now," Grandpa says soothingly. But his voice and expression are taut with concern. "Start from the beginning. Are you sure you saw them take Ty?"

"Yes!" Amy insists. "T-the horses were making a fuss, I went out to check on them, a-and I heard this—this commotion, so I went to see what was going on and these three guys were loading Ty into the Truck, and then they drove away, and I—" Amy's voice breaks. She turns away, too overwhelmed for words. A thousand different situations reel through her mind, involving everything from ransoms to jealous ex-girlfriends. But one feature remains the same: Ty in danger.

"I'm going to call the authorities," Grandpa says. "You can—"

"Grandpa! We have to follow them!" Amy tries to tug her grandfather out the door, but he doesn't budge. "By the time the authorities get here it'll be too late!"

"Amy, you know that's not a good idea," Grandpa counters. "We don't know who they are or what they want. They could be dangerous—"

"Which is exactly why we need to go after them!" Amy persists. "They can't have gotten far in this weather. Please, Grandpa."

"There's no signal." They whirl around. It's Lou, her eyes hard, her mouth pressed in a thin line, a phone clutched in her hand. "I can't get anything in this weather."

"Come on, Grandpa!" Amy urges. She's already halfway out the door.

Grandpa glances back at Lou, who stares back, expression tight with worry. He knows what she's thinking. "We'll take the road to Calgary," he tells her. She nods. "I'm gonna regret this," he mutters, and grabs his shotgun.

* * *

"Hey, Rat?"

"What?"

The younger Fremont brother squirms in his seat, resembling an uncomfortable toddler rather than an over-ninety kilogram slab of muscle. "I gotta go."

"You gotta be kiddin' me!" Rat throws up his hands in exasperation. "We're in the middle of a kidnapping, idiot. You should have gone before we left!"

"So . . . is that a no?"

"Yes, that's a no!"

Lorry's jaw aches from clenching it so tightly. Flexing his fingers—which are not only stiff but cold, too—he wants to glance back, to check on the Kid, but the storm raging outside the pickup prevents that. He can't afford to even peek back in fear that the vehicle will spin out of control. the Truck's headlights, which are on their brightest setting, barely cut through the tempestuous monster of white and gray attempting to wrest the flatbed from its owner's control. Even over the radio the howling gale can be heard, whistling and shrieking as if in protest of Lorry's actions.

"I've been holdin' it since forever," Younger Fremont grumbles.

"That's not my problem," is Rat's dispassionate response. "And don't call me Rat."

"How's the Kid?" Lorry croaks.

"Quiet," Elder Fremont answers. "Hope I didn't clock 'im too hard."

"Who cares?" Rat says nonchalantly.

A bewildered pause. "We do?" Lorry silently agrees.

"You two are idiots, you know that?"

'We weren't hired for our brains," Elder Fremont reminds him mildly. Apparently the Fremonts are used to insults regarding their less-than-mediocre intelligence.

* * *

"Speed up, Grandpa!" Amy urges. "I can't see them!"

"Amy, this is the thousandth time you've told me to speed up. And for the thousandth time I will tell you:They will see our truck." Grandpa adjusts his grip on the steering wheel, his scowl visible even under his formidable moustache. "We should be headin' back, anyhow. The snow's blowin' too hard for us to see six metres ahead of us."

"Please, Grandpa," Amy pleads. "Just keep going. The way this storm is blowing, they'll have to stop someplace. Then we can call the authorities and tell them exactly where they are." She doesn't voice the obvious flaw in her plan: In this kind of snowstorm, it would be a miracle if her cell phone even works.

"Amy, it's pitch black out here," Grandpa points out. "We're gonna lose them at some point. We don't know if they even went this way."

"They did," Amy declares resolutely. They must have.


	3. Ice

**Lorry's had enough.** He slams down the brake pedal with more force than necessary and sends them skidding to a nerve-wracking stop at the edge of the road. "We can't go on," he announces, shifting the vehicle into park.

"What d'ya mean, 'We can't go on'?" Rat demands, rubbing his throat where the seatbelt dug in.

"The storm is too bad. If we keep goin' at speeds like this, we're gonna crash. It's only a matter of time." Lorry shifts his Truck into park, refusing to reciprocate Rat's glower.

"In case you haven't noticed, we have a Kid sittin' in the back of this vehicle," Rat reminds him dryly. "You wanna just wait around for the authorities to show up?"

"The authorities ain't even been notified yet," Lorry scoffs. "And besides, if I keep drivin', we're for certain gonna get noticed. They're gonna be draggin' our dead bodies out of a ditch!"

"Hey, Rat?" Younger Fremont pipes up. "Now that we're stopping, can I get out and go?"

Ignoring Fremont, Rat glares daggers at Lorry for several tense seconds more before conceding. Grunting a note of sullen, reluctant consent, he twists around to face Elder Fremont. "Tell Maurice why we're stopped. Then put your masks back on." They do. As he pulls the dark cloth over his face, Lorry's gut twists. How is it that he, the Owner of the Truck, feels as much a prisoner to it as the Kid they had taken?

"Hey, Kid."

The Kid doesn't move.

Rat gestures to Younger Fremont. With unexpected swiftness, he rips the bag off of the Kid's head. The Kid's wide awake—has been for a while, by the look of him. _Been_ _bidin_ _' his time_ , Lorry realises. _This Kid ain't altogether stupid_.

"Hey, there, Kid," Rat growls, his tone smoothed into one of kindness and serenity—well, as kind and serene as a voice like Rat's can get. "Relax. We just wanna ask you some questions."

"Questions?" the Kid echoes, his voice high-pitched and indignant. "Are you guys nuts? What—why—what do you want?" Wild eyes. A face shaped by hardship. Body tense with suppressed energy, just ready to explode. If he isn't willing to give up the location of the money . . . Swallowing hard, Lorry turns and faces front again.

"I'll make this short. A little birdie told me that your old man dropped something off at your place. Something like . . . a whole lot of money." Not exactly true. But Lorry says nothing.

The Kid swallows, eyes narrowed with suspicion. "How-how do you know about him? About me?"

"That's none of your beeswax," Rat replies sharply, patience already wearing thin. "Now tell me where Brad Borden's money is and this'll all be over with."

"What-I haven't seen him since . . . you guys are crazy!" The Kid attempts to rise, but the Fremonts push him back down.

"Lyin' is just gonna make things harder for you." Rat leans so that he's only a couple of inches away from the Kid's face. "Just tell us where it is and we'll let you go."

Lorry peeks into the rearview mirror to catch the Kid's response. It's clear that he's scared. Promises made by creatures who hide behind masks are as empty and treacherous as the individuals who make them. If this Kid is truly Brad Borden's son, then he's no pampered, naive, country bumpkin. He's going to want to keep his money.

"Rat." Lorry puts an impeding hand on the other man's shoulder. "Enough. He don't have it."

"I need that cash!" Rat snarls. Lorry can't see his face, but his dark eyes are as cold and hard as ice. The eyes of a man willing to do anything to get what he wants. What he evidently _needs_.

"And you think I don't?" Lorry shoots back. "We'll find it some other way, okay? We can't do this." He gestures back at the Kid.

"I'm sorry. I let you win once. But you're not winning this one." As Lorry's heart sinks, Rat jerks away from his placating touch. "Listen, Kid. I don't think you're entirely sure of what's goin' on here. You are at a total disadvantage. Lying and stalling is useless. Now, I'm goin' to ask you one more time: _Where is Brad_ _Borden's_ _money_?"

Taking a deep, steadying breath, the Kid meets Rat's piercing stare with a determined glower of his own. "Look, I don't know about any money. You have to believe me!"

"Liar!"

"I'm serious!" The Kid twists violently in his seat, glancing between those sitting beside and in front of him. Lorry senses his fear, can see it in his rapid breaths and saucer-eyes and in the pent-up energy blazing through him like wildfire. Although most of their faces are covered, he must recognize the disbelief in their eyes. "The last time he came I—"

"So he's been to Heartland!" Rat crows, eyes glinting triumphantly.

The Kid realises his mistake too late. "Wait—no, you have this all wrong. I—"

Faster than anyone can react, Rat moves, striking the Kid mercilessly across the face. With a pained grunt, the Kid's head snaps sideways with brutal force. Lorry flinches despite himself, his protest lodged unspoken in his throat.  
"The money!" Rat's tone has escalated to nearly a scream, his eyes as savage as those of a ravenous predator. "Tell me where it is!"

"I. Don't. Have. It." Clear, cold eyes glare back at them, defiant and unyielding. The Kid's clipped, flat tone is enough to convince Lorry. Evidently, Rat is not so moved.

"That's it!" Nearly imploding with fury, Rat flings open the passenger door, hurtles into the snowstorm, and wrenches open the back door. "Get outta my way!" His apoplectic shriek is heard even over the yowling winds. Stunned, Elder Fremont scrambles out of the vehicle as Rat seizes the Kid by the neck of his t-shirt and yanks him out. Swearing vehemently, Lorry hops out of his pickup to . . . to do what, he doesn't quite know yet.

"Why've we stopped?" Maurice—Lorry almost forgot about him—stops Lorry at the front of the flatbed, his head bent against the biting wind.

"It's Rat," Lorry replies. "He's lost his marbles."

"You mean him beatin' on the Kid? That ain't nothin'. You should've seen—"

Lorry doesn't stay to hear the rest. He rounds the front of the vehicle and stops short, appalled by what's unfolding before him. The episode is illuminated by the Truck's headlights in all its horrific glory: The Kid's on the ground, curled into a ball, as Rat kicks at him furiously, bellowing over the storm: "Where is it? Where's my money?"

As the Kid shouts something unintelligible, as Elder Fremont stands by, indifferent, Lorry comes to a chilling conclusion.

 **The Chilling Conclusion :**

Rat has become utterly and irrevocably  
Unhinged.  
 **_**

"Rat!" Lorry hollers over the gale. "Are you insane?"

 **The Answer :**

Definitely.  
 **_**

"You stay out of this!" Rat orders. He doesn't turn away from his quarry. Another vicious kick. The Kid's gonna have some bruised—if not completely broken—ribs.

Nausea hits Lorry like a punch to the gut as Rat continues his onslaught, Elder Fremont standing by, seemingly indifferent as a man beats the life out of another human being as if it's the most normal thing in the world. Younger Fremont . . . Lorry glances around, squinting into the white and grey. _Where is he_?

An enraged cry abruptly shifts Lorry's attention. He turns back just in time to catch a glimpse of Rat's lean body hurtling toward him at alarming speeds. A cry of surprise catching in his throat, Lorry tries to lurch out of the way, but he's too late. Rat barrels into him, knocking Lorry off his feet. Everything goes topsy-turvy. For a moment, Lorry's world is dark, an enormous pressure bearing down upon him, crushing him.

"Get off of me!" Lorry grunts, wriggling and thrashing fruitlessly. For such a scrawny man, Rat sure is heavy.

Rat calls the Kid some things of which Lorry's mother would not approve. "You!" the crazed man screeches, staggering to his feet. It takes Lorry a moment to understand that he's addressing Elder Fremont. "Don't let him get in the Truck!" he slurs, his hand pressed to his nose.

The Kid is making a run for it. Lorry watches, paralysed by shock, as Elder Fremont makes a wild dash for the driver's side of the vehicle. Blood oozing from his pointed nose, Rat limps after him, a demented frenzy of ire and frustration.

"He got away!" Elder Fremont howls, gesturing into the line of trees looming up on either side of the road. He's clutching the side of his face, which the Kid undoubtedly struck in his mad dash for freedom. Rat curses again.

"He can't get away!" Rat roars. "After him! Where is your brother?"

"Here!" Younger Fremont blunders out of the trees, hitching up his pants as he comes. "What is it?"

"The Kid got away!" Rat bawls. "Get me a flashlight and go after him!"

"Wait!" Lorry calls. "Just let him go. He's—" Before Lorry can do more than protest, they're off like shots, floundering through the forests of Alberta for the Kid. For a fleeting moment, Lorry considers leaving them there. But what if they're caught? Would they exact some kind of mercenary revenge on him? That would undeniably mean jail time for Lorry, which is out of the question. Hands already aching from the cold, Lorry snatches a flashlight from the glovebox of his flatbed and races after them.

Luckily for them—and unluckily for the Kid—the storm is already letting up. The wind speed has lessened to that of a strong breeze, which decreases the velocity of the snowflakes that swiftly coat his jacket and mask. Which, Lorry thinks gratefully, makes seeing a whole lot easier. Flailing through snow in the middle of a forest is hard enough without a blizzard inhibiting things further. A wide variety of flora seems to work together to prevent him from traversing the forest. If it isn't tree boughs, then it's brambles or fallen branches.

Squinting into the white-flecked darkness, Lorry shines his light every which way, hoping for all the world to see Rat and the rest of the men struggling back toward the Truck. Preferably without the Kid if it means that Rat will quit picking on him. He isn't sure who he wants to find more: the Kid or Rat. Finding the Kid would only complicate the situation further, Lorry reasons, pushing past a copse of pine trees. It would be better off for them all if Lorry hops into his Truck, drives far, far away, and never comes anywhere near Heartland ever again.

Except . . . there's still the problem of Rat and his gang. When did their loyalty turn from Lorry to that back-stabbing madman anyway? Lorry supposes that it has less to do with his character and more to do with his ability to provide monetary compensation for their troubles. In that, case, well, Lorry's fresh outta luck. Everything was riding on the Lorry retrieving Borden's money for Ice. Once Ice had Borden's cash, he would give Lorry a percentile to remunerate his employers and himself. But now . . . Lorry curses again, shoving a snow-laden bough out of his path and receiving a faceful of freezing crystals in return.

"We got 'im now, boys!" The faint cry is scattered by the wind, but Lorry hears it nonetheless. Pointing his flashlight in the direction of the call, Lorry struggles through a stretch of brambles, tripping over a number of fallen branches and bumps in the terrain before stumbling to a halt at Rat's side.

"What are you doing?" Lorry barks.

"We got him!" Rat pant-chuckles, swiping off his mask. His features are warped, contorted into a grotesque caricature of human physiognomy. "He's out there!" Flinging his arm out, he lets loose another bout of maniacal cackling.

Lorry's heart drops to his knees as he stares out at the expanse of open space before them, illuminated by the powerful beam of his flashlight. It's a small lake, he realises. Or a glorified pond. And there's someone standing out on the middle of it.

"You have to let me go!" the Kid pleads. Eyes wide as a fifty cent piece. Standing still as a statue. Maurice and the Fremonts have spread out around the lake, preventing the Kid's escape. Trapping him.

Licking his cracked, dry lips, Lorry shoots a pleading glance at Rat. "Rat, this is madness. Let him go. I'll pay you and your buddies in full; just give me time."

"Oh, this goes way beyond money, Lorry," Rat growls. In relative silence, his words are positively chilling. "Brad Borden and me go way back. I think it's time for a little payback, don't you?" He tilts his head up and calls, "If he moves, break the ice,"

"Rat!" Lorry exclaims, aghast. He starts toward the water, but Rat's rasping voice stops him in his tracks. "Don't you dare, Lorry."

Lorry glances back at him, at Rat and his quivering frame and heaving breaths and mad eyes. And his pistol. Where the heck did he get a pistol? Suddenly, the temperature seems to plummet. Spectral ice creeps down his spine, seeping through his skin and coating his very bones with frost. Slowly, carefully, Lorry raises his hands. "Rat, you're not in your right mind. You don't wanna do this."

"Oh, I think I do," Rat snaps. "Step away, Lorry. Let the big boys handle this."

Heart sinking, Lorry cautiously moves away from the pond's shore with his hands held high. He watches helplessly as Rat calls, "Kid! Tell us where the money is and we'll let you go."

"Man, you are crazy!" the Kid exclaims incredulously. "Just put the gun down! We can talk about this." Arms lifted, he begins edging surreptitiously toward the edge of the lake.

Rat's arm lowers fractionally as he glares through the sheet of snowflakes separating him from his quarry. "I don't want another word comin' out of that mouth, Borden, unless it's the location of the money."

Silence. Lorry can sense the Kid's mind racing, calculating risks and judging his kidnappers' current dispositions. "All right," he finally says. "I'm going to walk back over there. And I'll tell you where the money is, but only once I'm off the pond."

Rat grunts his assent. "No funny business!" he warns, raising his weapon threateningly. Lorry noiselessly pleads the same appeal, but he suspects the reasons for his plea are quite different from Rat's.

One step. The sound of cracking ice twists Lorry's gut, freezes the air in his lungs.

"What's he doin', Rat?" Maurice inquires from across the pond. Rat doesn't answer.

Then Lorry hears it.

 **"It" :**

Faint, but distinctly human voices.  
 **_**

"Ty? Is that you?"

"Keep your voice down! He couldn't have gotten far."

Ty jumps like he's been shocked. For a moment, he just stares at Rat, still as a statue. He reminds Lorry of a caged wild animal—terrified, outnumbered, but untamable. Prepared to do whatever he must to escape his captors.

"Rat!" Lorry hisses, glancing around for signs of movement. "Forget him! Let's go!"

He motions frantically to Maurice and the Fremonts. "Someone's coming!" he says as loudly as he dares. Evidently their unwillingness to be caught outweighs the promise of fortune, because they move almost immediately, struggling feverishly through the snow like frightened hares.

"Get back here!" Rat screeches, waving the gun threateningly. "I'll—" In a fit of madness, Rat lets fly a bullet in the general direction of the voices. The sound pierces Lorry's ears, making them ring so loudly that he can barely hear the exchange that happens next.

"Hey!" the Kid hollers. For the first time, he sounds truly panicked. "Don't—"

"Too late," Rat cuts in, his teeth bared. His expression satisfied, gleeful, even, as he lifts the gun, finger poised on the trigger.

Then several things happen all at once.

 **The Several Things :**

Maurice and the Fremonts disappear into the trees, never to be seen again.  
Two people burst out of the trees, both carrying flashlights.  
One of them wielding a shotgun like he knows how to use it.  
A manic grin spreading across his face, Rat takes aim at the smaller one.  
The Kid cries out  
Abandons all caution  
Falls through the ice with a crack and a resounding splash.  
 **_**

The girl's scream is the worst sound Lorry has ever heard—and that's in a long, miserable life of bad sounds. She hurtles toward them, face pale with terror, blonde hair streaming out behind her. Surprised, Rat lowers his gun. That's all the chance Lorry needs. As the newcomers sprint to the lake, Lorry seizes Rat's gun hand. Spitting expletives, Rat yanks his hand away and takes aim—this time at the old man with the shotgun.

* * *

When Ty falls through the ice, Amy's heart stops. She had been delighted when the storm let up, then elated when she spotted the Truck parked along the side of the road only a few moments later. Those agonizingly long minutes of searching. Then . . . Ty falls. Amy's heart undergoes cardiac arrest. She's fairly sure that at one point she screams.

Then she's flying, racing toward the spot where he'd gone under. Her heart catches in her throat as the man with the gun cries, "Stay right there!" Amy whirls around and her heart skips a beat or five. The man with the gun, flanked by someone wearing a ski mask, points his gun at her grandpa. Fear for her grandfather's life is the only factor keeping her immobile.

"You don't wanna do that," Grandpa says calmly. He's still clutching his shotgun. Then Ty surfaces, all flailing limbs and heaving breaths. Amy let's out a breath she hadn't realised she was holding.

"Ty's out there!" Amy cries, pointing at the spot where he'd gone under with a shaking hand. "You have to let us help him!"

"That boy can drown for all I care," the one without the ski mask snarls. He does not drop his gun, despite the other man's obvious pleas.

"He don't have any money!" the unmasked man bawls. "That money was gonna save my hide!" He swings around, lowering his gun. That's all Grandpa needs. While the two kidnappers grapple for control of the weapon, Grandpa lifts his shotgun.

"Put that gun down!" he barks. "Now!"

"Here!" the masked one says, and flings it at Grandpa with all his might. Grandpa's shotgun dips as he raises an arm to prevent the pistol from hitting him. In the fraction of a moment Grandpa's distracted, they take off, fleeing into the trees like a pair of alarmed deer.

Grandpa hollers after them, but they've already disappeared. With the immediate threat gone, Amy races toward the pond.

"Amy, wait!" Grandpa from calls behind her. "It's not safe!"

Trivialities. All that matters is getting Ty out of the pond, warmed up, and back to Heartland before—no, she won't allow herself to think it.

"Ty!" she shrieks, her voice cracking. Ty doesn't respond. He's too busy gasping and coughing, thrashing in a futile attempt to hoist himself onto the ice. The rational part of her brain remembers that he probably inhaled reflexively when he went under because of the frigid temperature of the water. Which means that he breathed in water, which means he's not breathing air, which means—

"Amy!" Grandpa's firm arm prevents Amy from racing out onto the ice.

"Grandpa!" Amy wails. She's faintly aware that she sounds near-hysterical, but at this point she doesn't care. "We have to get to Ty! We have to—"

"Calm down," Grandpa orders sharply. "You're not gonna do him any good if you fall through, too." He looks past Amy and shouts, "Hang on, Ty, we're comin' to getcha!"

Ty wheezes something unintelligible. He's trying to propel himself onto the ice, but the overwhelming terror and possible hyperventilation caused by the arctic temperature of the water is preventing logical, calculated movement. Something Mallory said about ice rescue pops up in Amy's brain—something about how the coldness of the water can cause a person to hyperventilate, which in turn can lead to cardiac arrest.

"Should I call the hospital?" Amy asks. She already knows that it's a futile gesture, but she's desperate to do something constructive.

"You think there's reception right now?" comes Grandpa's swift reply. "If you wanna be helpful, fetch me a good-size branch!" He's already dropped his shotgun and is stepping warily onto the edge of the pond, testing it with one foot before putting all of his weight on it. Once Amy hands him the branch (the first substantial-sized one she could find), he continues more quickly, holding his flashlight in one hand and the branch in the other. To Amy, he seems to be moving in slow motion.

"Ty!" Grandpa yells. "I'm comin'! Calm down, I'm comin'!"

A few metres away from the hole, Grandpa drops onto his stomach and begins wriggling toward Ty. "Ty!" he bellows. "You need to calm down! You hear me? Calm down! Take deep breaths, Ty!"

Amy can't hear what Ty says, but his writhing abates considerably. Lying about a metre away from the hole, Grandpa proffers the branch. Ty reaches out to grab it.

 _Snap_.

Amy can hear Grandpa curse from where she's standing. Without thinking about it, she's sprinting back into the forest to find a longer, sturdier bough. Inside, she feels as though she might burst from anxiety, but she pushes it back. Ty needs Amy to focus, to remain calm despite everything within her wanting to do otherwise. Turning in a circle, she directs her flashlight in a wandering path along the snowy ground, wishing for all the world that the sun would come up. Mallory's random facts, spouted at various occasions over the past few days, chase each other in circles in her head. _Varying weather temperatures can affect the strength of the ice_.

Yes, between rainstorms one day and snowstorms the next, Amy can definitely say that the weather has been up and down lately.

 _Never go out on ice covered with snow_. _You can't tell how thick the ice is_.

Well, Ty didn't exactly have time to dig a hole in the ice and measure—there! She spots a hefty-looking tree limb more than a metre long lying on the ground and grabs it, ignoring the ache spreading through her stiff fingers. Lifting it with one hand, she lugs it along at the fastest speed she can manage without tripping, using the flashlight to light the way. Emerging from the trees, she stumble-sprints until she reaches the edge of the lake. Then she slows, walking slowly, carefully as she dares.

"Don't you dare, Amy!" Grandpa threatens when he spots her. He's still on his stomach, inching forward despite Ty's obvious warnings.

"D-don't g-get-t an-ny c-clos-ser! Y-you'll f-fal-l t-through!" he chatters. Amy ignores both him and her grandfather, shuffling along as fast as she dares.

"Spread your weight out at least!" Grandpa commands. This she does. The cold of the ice seeps through her clothes and freezes her skin. Gritting her teeth, she army crawls forward, spitting hair out of her mouth as it falls across her face. Under the snow created by the storm, the ice is cloudy—a sure sign of fragility.

As she draws closer, Amy watches Ty transform from a healthy human being to something that might be pulled out of the freezer. His skin is inhumanly white, contrasting sharply with his dark hair, which is already dusted lightly with snow and plastered to his head. As Jack lectures him, he trembles so violently he looks as though he's having a seizure.

"Ty, try to hoist yourself up here," Jack instructs.

"T-tryin'," he wheezes, scrabbling for a grip on the snow-covered ice. "M-m'ribs-s-s—" He hoists himself out—then plunges back in when the ice fractures. Amy gives a strangled shriek, fearing the worst, but he resurfaces with a heaving gasp.

Setting her flashlight down so the beam shines on Ty, Amy extends the branch before she's even close to the hole. "Ty!" she chokes out. "Grab this!" Grandpa grabs the bough, steadying Amy's quivering hands.

Ty oustretches bare, shivering arms and seizes the bough. He gives a quavery grunt that Amy takes as a go-ahead. She and Grandpa both rise to their knees to give themselves more leverage. Bracing herself, Amy heaves with all her might. She and Grandpa go sprawling as the bough slips out of Ty's grip and he drops back into the water. But Amy's grip is viselike. Scrambling to her knees, ignoring the dull thud of weak ice beneath her, she sticks the branch out again. "Come on!"

Grandpa tries crawling closer to the hole. Struggles back when he hears the sound of cracking ice. "How you managed to run all the way out here without falling through is beyond me."

Ty flashes a hollow imitation of a grin. "'M-m a t-talent-ted g-guy."

Grandpa harrumphs. "Well, next time could you do it during the summertime? I'm freezin' my butt off, here."

Snatching ahold of the branch, Ty jerks his head. "I-I'll t-try t-to r-rem-memb-ber t-that-t."

Once again they tug. Once again Ty slips back in, sloshing water over the edges of the hole. "Ty!" Amy squawks, heart dropping to her middle.

He resurfaces with a ragged gulp, shaking so violently Amy can hear his teeth knocking together. "S-sor-ry!" he chatters. "M-my h-hands-s ar-re r-really c-cold-d." Ty, ever the fighter, attempts clambering onto the ice from several sides of the hole. Each time, the ice cracks and he collapses back into the water, choking and shuddering uncontrollably. And each time, the energy behind his effort wanes.

Forgoing safety, Amy starts forward, but Grandpa pulls her back. "Don't you dare," he growls. There's no room for argument. Amy tightens her grip on the bough, ignores the ache spreading through her shoulder from holding something so heavy so long, and prays as hard as she possibly can. "Try again, Ty," Grandpa encourages. He shifts to another side of the hole, stretching the tree limb out as far as he dares.

Ty gives a jerk of his head that could be either a spasm caused by the cold or a nod of agreement. With hands so cold she can barely feel the them, Amy clutches the bough and readies herself once more. Dragging in quick, quivering breaths, Ty takes more time grasping the branch. He adjusts his grip. He inhales deeply.

"D-do it."

Amy and Grandpa haul backward with grunts of exertion. Ty's coming up, up, over the ice . . . and he's out! The ice sways beneath Amy, but she pushes back her lightheadedness with a joyful cry.

"Don't stand up," Grandpa advises, tossing the branch aside.

A couple of inarticulate noises from Ty tell Amy that he's not ready to speak yet, let alone walk. "Come on, Ty," she coaxes.

Shivering so unrestrainedly he's convulsing, Ty does a pitiful half-squirm, half-crawl motion that gets him close enough to Amy that she can grab him. She and Grandpa snag Ty by the arms and lugs him back the way they'd come. They don't risk standing until they are well away from the fall-in spot, supporting a quavering Ty between them. Even standing they are painfully slow, constantly checking for weak pockets in the ice. Then onto the shore. Blessed, solid, unbreakable ground. Amy wants nothing more than to flop down and nap for five hours, but she knows that's not possible. Anyone with half a brain would be aware that Ty needs to get warm, stat. She exhales a long breath, watching her breath expand in a little cloud before her mouth. Adjusting Ty, who's starting to slip from her shoulder, she glances at Grandpa anxiously.

Ty manages to choke out a curse. "It-t's-s s-so c-col-d," he gasps. Grandpa's coat is thrown around his shoulders in a heartbeat. Amy wishes fervently that she had remembered to wear a hat and gloves, if only it meant that Ty would get them now.

"We gotta keep moving," he says briskly. "The truck is this way. Amy you carry this"—he gestures with his flashlight—"and I'll grab my shotgun. Ty, you keep moving. Whatever you do, don't stop moving."


	4. Thaw

**Dragging a quaking Ty** through a forest covered with 20 centimetres of fresh snow with only a flashlight to guide them is one of the most difficult endeavours Amy has ever undertaken. Half the time, Amy isn't sure that Grandpa knows exactly where he's going, but she trusts him invariably. Ty's clumsiness certainly doesn't help them. Not only does he shake, but after a while his legs stop working correctly. He trips and stumbles over his own two feet. Meanwhile, both Grandpa and Amy keep up a steady stream of conversation with him, discussing the weather, his condition, anything to keep him lucid. Half the time his responses are unintelligible, but at least he is responding.

"So, Ty, how are you feeling?" Amy's breath hitches in her throat as she tugs him upright for the sixth time.

"P-peachy."

"What do you think about this weather?" Grandpa tramples down a bramble so Ty doesn't entangle himself.

"B-beautif-ful. P-perfect-t f-for swim-ming-g."

Suppressing an eye-roll, Amy says, "What's your favorite drink?"

He has to think about it for a moment. "R-right-t n-now? An-nything-g h-hot-t."

"And we'll have all you can drink back at Heartland," Grandpa promises, pushing a tree limb out of their path with the barrel of his shotgun.

"Mhm."

Shining her flashlight at Ty, Amy frowns worriedly. His green eyes are glassy, focused on something a thousand miles away. "Ty?"

"Mhm?"

"What's two plus two?"

Ty scowls, brow furrowed in frustration. "W-what-t k-kinda ques-stion-n is-s th-that-t?" He stumbles again, struggling to find his footing. "T-two pl-lus-s t-two . . . "

"Ty!"

"F-four!" His eyes clear and he jerks abruptly, causing Amy to stagger. "It's four-r."

"Keep movin', Amy," Grandpa reminds her. The brumal wind tearing at her skin, Amy struggles along with renewed effort. Surely it hadn't taken them this long to get to the pond before!

Ty never complains, but he's flagging fast. At some point, Amy sheds her coat and tries to get Ty to put it on. He refuses. Prideful idiot. Amy's warm anyway, so she throws it over Ty's head and tells him quite waspishly to wear the coat or else. Wiping snow-dusted hair out of her eyes, Amy glances at Grandpa, who traipses along unwaveringly, shotgun clutched in his free hand. As steady and unflappable as a good trick horse.

"Hey, Ty," Grandpa says. "As much as you complain about it, you're lucky you live above a barn. If those horses hadn't made such a racket, you might be a Ty-sicle right now."

Ty smiles vaguely but doesn't outright answer. Apprehension gnawing at her insides, Amy asks, "Grandpa, where is the road?"

"Hang on a minute," he tells her. "We're going in the right direction."

"Then why haven't we found it yet?"

"Because it was a long ways from there to the pond," Grandpa snaps, stomping on a pile of snow with more force than necessary.

It isn't long before Grandpa starts shivering, though he tries to hide it. By this time, Amy's gelid, too, and they're practically carrying Ty, who stopped answering their questions at Grandpa's _If you had a dog, would you teach it how to ride a unicycle?_

"Grandpa!" Amy gasps. "Ty's—"

Shlump. Without warning, Ty sinks out of her grasp, falling gracelessly to the ground. To Amy's relief, he stirs immediately, but it's a chore getting him on his feet again.

"W-what are y-you doin'?" he slurs, glancing between them confusedly. Grandpa and Amy share a knowing look.

 **The Knowing Look :**

If they don't get back to the truck soon,

Ty is thoroughly and utterly

Screwed.

"Up and at 'em, lazybones," Grandpa says. "We gotta get you back to Heartland."

"Oh. Oh, yeah, o-okay."

With Ty propped between them, they start off again. Snow still falls gently from the heavens, sprinkling them with flakes that melt into their clothes and freeze their skin. A slight breeze still blows, but it's nothing compared to the gale that was storming earlier. Nonetheless, Amy and Grandpa do their best to shield Ty. Any wind is dangerous to someone who just fell into a frozen pond. What happens, Amy thinks, panting with exertion, if they don't reach the truck in time? If they don't find the vehicle at all? Would they all just freeze out here? Surely Lou will search for them relentlessly, but that doesn't mean she will find them in time. A frost-coated scenario rapidly constructs before her mind's eye:

 **The Frost-Coated Scenario :**

Lou and possibly Mallory driving around for hours

In search of Amy, Ty, and Grandpa

Finding their frostbitten corpses an eternity later

All huddled together in a futile attempt to keep warm.

Mallory turning to Lou

Asking if she can have Amy's room

It's such a morbid thought that Amy wants to laugh. What if—Amy gasps as her foot catches on something unyielding and sends her stumbling to the ground. Instinctively, she throws out her arms to catch herself and gets two handfuls of snow and wet jeans-knees for her trouble. Ty falls beside her in a much less self-preserving manner, twisted at an odd angle to keep from squashing Amy flat. For a frigid but blissful moment, Amy remains kneeling, her icy hands clenched into fists. She directs the flashlight beam at Ty, who's still trembling and nearly as white as the snow that surrounds them.

"Amy!"

"I'm sorry, Grandpa," Amy chokes out, struggling to her feet. "Sorry, Ty." Wiping her runny nose with a near-numb hand, Amy tilts her head toward the starless sky and says, "Grandpa, I think the storm is picking up again."

Her grandfather's attention is fixed on something else. "The road!" Grandpa snatches up the flashlight and points it behind Amy. Energy rushes through Amy like a flash flood. Scrambling to her grandfather's side, she stares in near-disbelief at the blessed sight of the highway, brightened by the beam of the flashlight.

"Thank God!" Amy breathes. "Help me, Grandpa!"

Together, they heft Ty to his feet and virtually drag his frozen body over the last dozen metres. Staggering out onto the road, Grandpa quickly spots the truck sitting not a hundred metres from their current location. And just in time, too-the wind has once again begun its keening cry, pelting them with snowflakes that drive into their skin like tiny sharp rocks.

The trip back is just as nerve-wracking as the drive to the forest, thanks to Ty. The heating system in Grandpa's ancient truck is as fickle and unreliable as an untrained colt. Never before has she heard Jack Bartlett plead with his truck as she does now. Stuffed into the seat with Ty crammed between her and Grandpa, her hands and feet like blocks of ice and her chest aching with the cold, Amy huddles next to her quivering boyfriend as gelid air blasts out of the vents. They're racing down the highway as fast as Grandpa can on a road slick with snow and frozen slush and in air thick with churning snow. Knuckles white on the steering wheel, Grandpa mutters a constant stream of expletives under his breath, squinting out into the black and white haze that the headlights barely cut through.

Amy's leg bounces incessantly (a habit for which Lou constantly reprimands her) as she twists the dials that are supposed to control the heat and air conditioner. "Grandpa, the heater doesn't feel like it's working."

Another frustrated curse. "Fiddle with the knobs a little more." Amy does.

"Ha!" Amy releases a breath of delight as warm air begins to blow softly through the vents. "Lean forward, Ty!" Flexing her achy fingers, Amy turns up the dial—and the heat vanishes. This time it's Amy who curses. "Grandpa! Your truck is a piece of junk!"

"She is not!" Grandpa protests sharply. "She's just—" They all cry out in astonishment as the pickup swerves toward the edge of the road.

"N-nah," Ty snickers. "N-not a p-piece of j-junk-k at-t all."

Adjusting his grip on the steering wheel, Grandpa regards Ty balefully but never fully takes his eyes off the highway. "Well, at least we know you haven't lost your horrible sense of humor."

"W-who s-said-d an-nyth-thing ab-bout h-horrible?"

After a bit more fiddling, some praying, and a lot more swearing, Amy gets the heater to start, albeit at it's next-to-lowest setting. Next task: Keep Ty from falling asleep. Sending a quick mental thank you to Mallory and her incessant prattling, Amy turns and tells Ty, "Let's sing a song!"

Ty, whose eyes have begun to flutter shut, pries them open reluctantly. "What?"

"Let's sing a song!"

"C-come on, Am-my," Ty mumbles. "'M t-tired."

"Which is exactly why we're singing," Amy replies briskly. She's tired too, but she would see herself frozen in a glacier before she let's Ty's bodily functions slow down. "Come on, Grandpa! Think of a song!"

Jack Bartlett does not sing often. But when he does, it's always a moment to remember. Taking a deep breath, Grandpa belts out the loudest, most irritating tune possible:

" _I really can't stay_ . . . "

Recognizing the lyrics instantly, Amy joins in. " _Baby it's cold outside_."

" _I've got to go away_!"

" _But baby, it's cold outside_! Sing, Ty!" Amy has never felt so ridiculous, but she can't deny the effectiveness of her plan: Ty's huddled in the seat, still quivering, but he's grinding out the words with her and Grandpa the best he can.

"I-it's not e-even Chr-ristmas," he whines.

Amy glances at him. "Since when have you been all about seasonal correctness?"

"S-since I'm-m f-freezing m-my b-butt off in-n J-jack's sc-crap heap-p of a t-truck."

"Take off your socks," Amy orders. "You gotta keep moving."

With a tired groan, Ty leans down and tries to peel off his socks. Studying him discreetly, Amy notices how his hand clutches at his ribs as he moves—a gesture of discomfort he tries and fails to hide. Amy waits expectantly. And waits. His hands are probably frozen stiff, she realises. But he'd rather be boiled in horse dung than admit it.

"Havin' problems down there, Ty?" Grandpa finally asks. No answer.

"I'll do it," Amy volunteers, and bends down. Ty doesn't even argue aside from an inarticulate half-hearted complaint. As she peels off Ty's socks, which are freezing and soaked with pond water, a little voice in the back of her head—the little voice invariably associated with her ability to blush—informs her quite sinisterly that she hasn't seen Ty's bare feet before. At least not this close. The little voice also tells her that under different circumstances, Grandpa might be less lenient about the absence of personal space between them.

The ride back to Heartland probably takes about twenty minutes, thanks to the veritable blizzard raging outside the flatbed. To Amy, it feels like an eternity—even with all three of them screeching Christmas songs at the top of their lungs. Despite the meagre efforts of the truck's heater, they're all quaking as Grandpa rolls to an unceremonious halt outside the house. Lou bursts out the door and rushes over to them, Mallory following close behind. Amy hasn't even got the passenger door open before Mallory begins her tirade of questions.

"What happened?" Mallory cries, staring at them with wide eyes.

"Ty took a little dip in a pond," Grandpa replies bluntly, dashing around the front of the truck. Amy slides off the seat and into the piercing wind, her chest immediately clenching against the cold.

"Let's get inside," Lou urges. Amy doesn't need to be told twice. Mallory takes up the rear as Lou sprints to the door, holding it open for Grandpa and Ty.

"Nice coat, Ty," Mallory comments, eyes trained on Amy's coat as they struggle through the door. A blast of warm air envelopes Amy like a thick blanket. With a relieved sigh, she kicks off her boots and shuffles to the couch.

"Th-thanks." Without pausing to remove his boots, Grandpa shambles past the kitchen and eases Ty onto the couch next to Amy.

"Get him out of those clothes," Mallory commands indignantly. "Don't you know anything about hypothermia?"

With that—Amy will never forget this for as long as she lives—Lou pushes Ty to his feet and pulls down his pajama pants. Then goes his shirt. Thus, a little battle initiates inside Amy's brain:

Ty Borden is standing in his underwear in my living room.

 _Your boyfriend just fell into a frozen lake and you're thinking about that_?

Yes, but it's _Ty_.

Amy all of a sudden feels very warm. Staring very determinedly at the ground, she folds her hands innocuously in her lap and wills herself not to blush. By the time she musters enough courage to look up, Lou's got a blanket thrown over him and is rummaging in the wardrobe for more. There is a fire started in the hearth, thanks to Grandpa, who prods at the burning logs with a poker. Finally glancing at Ty, Amy is slightly pleased to notice that she is not the only one flushed red. In spite of having recently been dunked into a ice-covered pond, Ty's entire face is the colour of a tomato (a phenomenon not often witnessed by most of civilised world).

"Here, Amy." Twisting her head toward her sister's voice, Amy barely manages to catch the blanket Lou tosses her way. "Grandpa, sit down. You must be freezing." With an armful of blankets, Lou strides over to Ty and begins laying them meticulously over him, going as far as tucking in corners and smoothing out wrinkles. Wrapping the fluffy comforter around herself, Amy privately thinks that Lou resembles a fussy mom.

"I'll sit down when this fire's goin' nice and hot," Grandpa promises.

"Fine. I'm going to go and make some hot cocoa." The eldest Fleming sister turns to leave, then twists back around and examines Ty more closely. "What on earth happened to your eye?" Amy manoeuvres so that she can see the injury more clearly. It's there; she doesn't know how she missed it before: A large red splotch on his right cheekbone, swollen and undoubtedly painful. She wishes Grandpa had taken a shot at those madmen before they got away.

"A c-crazy guy p-punched me," Ty responds matter-of-factly.

"I'm assuming you don't want ice for that at the moment."

"R-right now, I w-want j-just about an-nything b-but." Shifting under the mountain of blankets, Ty reaches up and probes the wound carefully. "I don't th-think anyth-thing's b-broken."

"Including your ribs?" Grandpa asks archly.

"Your ribs," Lou echoes disbelievingly.

"L-like I said. C-crazy p-people." Ty's quiet for a moment, but when it becomes apparent that no one will let the matter drop until someone gets a proper answer, he sighs and says, "No. N-nothing's b-broken."

"And the people staying at the dude ranch did this?" Mallory asks, folding her arms. Ty just nods.

"And to think I let those lunatics stay at here," Lou says mournfully. "I knew there was something was off about them!"

"We all did, I think," Amy puts in. "It's okay, Lou. You couldn't have known that they were homicidal maniacs." Ty nods vigorously in agreement.

"If the phone lines weren't down the police would already be on their tails," Lou grumbles.

"We'll deal with all that once the storm passes," Grandpa vows.

"Oh, we most definitely will," Lou mutters darkly. After scanning her patients one more time, Lou bustles from the room.

"Ty, I promise you can eat all of my bagels you want as long as you don't die," Mallory pleads, gazing at Ty like he might disappear if she blinks.

"He ain't gonna die, Mallory," Grandpa says exasperatedly. "Just a little dunk in the pond, is all." As her grandfather adds more wood to the fire, Amy eyes him carefully as she surreptitiously scoots closer to Ty.

"No funny business, you two."

Not bothering to conceal an irritated huff, Amy throws off her comforter in one giant, sweeping movement. "I'm going to change," she announces, and stalks off to her room.

Mallory glares at Jack Bartlett resentfully. "Way to kill the mood, Jack."

Grandpa just huffs and grumbles under his breath.

Amy emerges from her room bearing a fresh set of pyjamas and a cooled temper. Squaring her shoulders, she marches back into the living room and plonks herself on the couch as close as humanly possible to Ty—which still isn't obscenely close, thanks to the boatload of blankets piled on him. From his customary chair, Grandpa observes them silently. Amy doesn't meet his gaze.

"I'm gonna change, too," Grandpa informs them, and strides purposefully into the hall. Lou says nothing, but a little smirk stretches her lips as she hands Amy a mug of steaming hot cocoa.

"Shouldn't Ty go to the hospital or something?" Lou asks once Grandpa returns in a pair of comfy winter nightclothes. Smacking Mallory's grabbing hands away from the last cup on her tray, Lou passes the cup to Grandpa.

"No," both chime simultaneously.

"There's no way I'm riskin' driving in that again unless it is absolutely necessary," Grandpa says firmly.

"You d-don't!" Ty assures him, wriggling under his blankets. "I'll b-be fine."

"Still cold?" Amy inquires.

"Yeah." He shifts again, face tight with discomfort. "My h-hands and f-feet are starting t-to hurt."

"You probably have frostbite," Mallory pipes up. "And a mild case of hypothermia." She flops down in the chair opposite Grandpa, studying Ty shrewdly.

Ty snorts derisively. "No k-kidding."

"The storm is bound to let up, the way it's been blowin'," Grandpa remarks. "If things are still lookin' bad by then, we'll take you into Hudson."

"Things w-won't be looking bad," Ty vows. Amy sure hopes so.

It turns out that Grandpa does have a heart, seeing as he allows Ty to sleep in the house on the couch instead of banishing him to the lonely, gelid confines of his loft. Filled to the brim with painkillers and hot cocoa, Ty dozes on the couch, clad in a pair of Grandpa's pyjama bottoms and an old shirt. Long after everyone else is sleeping, Amy quietly pads into the living room to check on Ty. A pile of blankets lay on the floor, gradually discarded as their user grew warmer. Feeling a bit stalkerish, Amy allows herself to gaze at Ty for a few moments more, taking in his peaceful expression. When he's sleeping he looks so vulnerable, so innocent, Amy muses. There is none of the terror and stress that was so prevalent just a few hours earlier.

Satisfied with her findings, Amy starts to return to her room. She turns back when she hears movement.

"Can't sleep?" she murmurs, walking over to him. Easing down on the couch, she cards a hand through Ty's dark hair.

Ty shakes his head. "I'm still a little cold." He sticks his leg out of the blankets, revealing a freshly socked foot. "Jack sure wears some heavy-duty socks."

Amy smiles. "He does, doesn't he?" Twisting so she can look her boyfriend in the eye, she asks, "What did those psychos want with you, anyway?"

There's a moment of silence during which Ty is clearly gauging how much he wants to tell Amy. Knowing that pressing won't get anymore answers, not in this situation, Amy waits patiently.

"Some thugs were after my dad," he finally answers. "Thought he hid money here."

"At Heartland," Amy says skeptically. "And they thought you knew where it was?"

"Yeah. Apparently they found out he was here. But they didn't know why, obviously, or they never would've come." His eyes and tone darken with bitterness. Amy knows that he still hasn't forgiven himself for letting Brad Borden get away with her family's money all those months ago.

"Those guys were obviously crazy," Amy says. "They wouldn't have taken you if they were sane."

"Honestly, I think they were just desperate." Ty has that shrewd look in his eye, the one that transcends the look of a classic juvenile delinquent or even a bright veterinary assistant. It's the look of someone who's seen and experienced things beyond his years.

"One of them tried to shoot you." Amy grabs one of his hands and squeezes it gently, relieved to see that, although his hand is cold, it's returning to a normal colour. Jack's borrowed shirt is a bit too large for Ty; the sleeves slips down over his hands in a way Amy finds oddly endearing.

"Okay, I'm pretty sure that guy's lost a few of his marbles," Ty concedes. "But one of them . . . he tried to get the other guy to let me go."

Amy exhales slowly. "So, what are you going to do about it?"

"I don't know." Ty shrugs, then winces.

"Ty, they were going to let you drown," Amy says emphatically.

"I know. And it was terrifying." Carefully, Amy lies down next to Ty, relishing the warmth that rushes through her when he pulls her closer. "But right now, I'm just thankful to be home."

Home. The word makes Amy's insides bloom with happiness. "Me too," she sighs.

Together, kept warm by each other and by the heat of a crackling fire, they wait for the storm to pass.

* * *

You may notice that the amount of drama in this story shoots through the roof. Well, I have two reasons (read: excuses) for that:

1) Heartland is literally called "a Canadian and U.S family drama television series" on Wikipedia. If I didn't make it nauseatingly histrionic it wouldn't be anything like the show (which is kinda lame but we still watch it anyway).

2) I am physically incapable of writing anything but drama because let's face it: I am a giant drama queen.

I thought of this story a while back and honestly berated myself for even entertaining the idea of writing something so self-serving. But hey, I indulge myself every once in awhile. It might not be my zenith of literary achievements, but it was fun to write. This composition is set during the winter between season two and three of Heartland and addresses some unused plot bunnies inspired by said programme. Like what sort of trouble Ty's dad had gotten himself into over the years. And how everyone would deal with it.

The format in which I chose to write this piece was inspired by The Book Thief by Markus Zusak. His writing style is one of my favorites and I love that book. In fact, I considered the notion of writing Death's point of view for at least one section. Why didn't I? Laziness, of course. The bane of my existence. That, and the fact that I wanted this composition to be of mediocre quality at bare minimum. Writing from a such a unique, foreign point of view and making it qualify as decent literature would be difficult to say the least, considering that I'm an amateur with zero experience in that domain.

Speaking of zero experience, I have never fallen into a pond in the middle of winter. All of the occurrences transpiring in this piece were written in near ignorance, because I sure ain't jumping into no frozen lake. So any inaccuracies you see were not written on purpose.

The circumstance involving the heat in Jack's vehicle can actually happen. I was once in a van in which the heating system only worked if you set it on the lower setting. Nevertheless, I froze my rear end off.

Well, this might be my first fully completed fanfiction, you guys! And who'd have thought that it would be a Heartland piece, of all things?

As always, comments are appreciated!


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